fftf 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


' 


POEMS 

OF 

CLARENCE    COOK 


CLARENCE  C.  COOK 

AT  THE  AGB  OF  }6 

FROM  A  PEN-AND-INK  DRAWING  MADE  IN  1864 
BY  THOMAS  C.  FARRAR,  PUPIL  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 


POEMS 

BY 

CLARENCE    COOK 


NEW  YORK 
I9O2 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 
BY   LOUISA  W.   COOK 


PRIVATELY   PRINTED 

AT  THE   G1LLISS   PRESS,  NEW   YORK 

FOR  LOUISA  W.  COOK 

AND   HER   FRIENDS 

1902 


/  ~J 


THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME 

OF  PUBLISHED  AND  UNPUBLISHED  VERSES 
BY  THE  LATE 

CLARENCE    COOK 

IS  DEDICATED  TO  HIS  MANY  FRIENDS  AND  LOVERS 
BY  HIS  WIFE 

LOUISA   W.  COOK 


UBRARY 


CHRONOLOGY 


1828 

September  8th,  Clarence  Chatham  Cook  born 
at  Dorchester,  Massachusetts. 

1849 

Graduated  at  Harvard  College. 

Studied  architecture  for  a  season.  Then  be 
came  a  tutor.  Lectured  on  Art  and  gave  read 
ings  from  Shakespeare's  plays. 

1852 

Married  Tuesday,  October  26th,  to  Louisa  De 
Wint  Whittemore,  widow  of  Samuel  Whittemore 
of  New  York  City. 

1863 

Began  a  series  of  articles  published  in  the  New 
York  Tribune,  on  "  American  Art  and  Artists." 

1864 

Editor  of  The  New  Path,  a  pre-Raphaelite 
journal  published  in  New  York. 

1868 
Published  "  The  Central  Park." 

vii 


1 869 

Paris  correspondent  of  The  New  York  Tribune. 
Went  to  Italy  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war. 

1870 

Returned  to  the  United  States  and  renewed 
his  connection  with  The  New  York  Tribune. 

1874 

Wrote  the  text  of  a  heliotype  reproduction  of 
Durer's  "  Life  of  the  Virgin." 

1878 

Completed  "The  House  Beautiful  " and  edit 
ed,  with  notes,  the  translation  of  Liibke's  "His 
tory  of  Art." 

1884 

Editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Studio,  a  monthly 
magazine  of  art  published  in  New  York. 

1886 

Published  an  illustrated  work  in  three  large 
volumes  entitled  "  Art  and  Artists  of  Our  Time." 

1900 

Clarence  Chatham  Cook  died  at  Fishkill-on- 
the-Hudson  May  31,  aged  72  years. 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

Chronology        ......  vii 

The  Maple  Tree       .....  1 

Abram  and  Zimri        .        ....  6 

An  April  Violet 10 

Regret '2 

L'Ennui '4 

Aspiration l6 

The  Soul's  Question         .        .        .        .  18 

Assertion    ....•••  32 

The  Apple      .        .        .        .        •        •  33 

For  Easter  Day 34 

On  One  Who  Died  in  May  36 
The  Yew  Tree    .        .        .        .        -        -39 

The  Immortal 4 ' 

Two  Mays          .        .        •        •        •        -45 

Wind  Harpings       .....  47 

A  Valentine        .         .         .        .        . ; .      •  49 

Coming — Come       .        .        •        •        •  52 

Ulysses  and  the  Sirens         .        .        ...  53 


PACE 

Ottilia 54 

A  Portrait 57 

Sonnet 60 

To  Giulia,  Singing 61 

Yesterday  and  To-Day    ....  63 

A  Sonnet  in  Praise  of  His  Lady's  Hands       .  66 


POEMS 

BY 

CLARENCE    COOK 


THE  MAPLE  TREE 

A  N  April  sun  with  April  showers 
•**    Had  burst  the  buds  of  lagging  flowers; 
From  their  fresh  leaves  the  violets'  eyes 
Mirrored  the  deep  blue  of  the  skies  ; 
The  daffodils,  in  clustering  ranks, 
Fringed  with  their  spears  the  garden  banks, 
And  with  the  blooms  1  love  so  well 
Their  paper  buds  began  to  swell, 
While  every  bush  and  every  tree 
Burgeoned  with  flowers  of  melody  ; 
From  the  quick  robin  with  his  range 
Of  silver  notes,  a  warbling  change, 
Which  he  from  sad  to  merry  drew 
A  sparkling  shower  of  tuneful  dew, 
To  the  brown  sparrow  in  the  wheat 
A  plaintive  whistle  clear  and  sweet. 
Over  my  head  the  royal  sky 
Spread  clear  from  cloud  his  canopy, 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

The  idle  noon  slept  far  and  wide 
On  misty  hill  and  river  side, 
And  far  below  me  glittering  lay 
The  mirror  of  the  azure  bay. 

I  stood  beneath  the  maple  tree  ; 

Its  crimson  blooms  enchanted  me, 

Its  honey  perfume  haunted  me, 

And  drew  me  thither  unaware, 

A  nameless  influence  in  the  air. 

Its  boughs  were  hung  with  murmuring  bees 

Who  robbed  it  of  its  sweetnesses — 

Their  cheerful  humming,  loud  and  strong, 

Drowned  with  its  bass  the  robin's  song, 

And  filled  the  April  noontide  air 

With  Labor's  universal  prayer. 

I  paused  to  listen — soon  I  heard 

A  sound  of  neither  bee  nor  bird, 

A  sullen  murmur  mixed  with  cheer 

That  rose  and  fell  upon  the  ear 

As  the  wind  might — yet  far  away 

Unstirred  the  sleeping  river  lay, 

And  even  across  the  hillside  wheat 

No  silvery  ripples  wandered  fleet. 

It  was  the  murmur  of  the  town, 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

No  song  of  bird  or  bee  could  drown — 
The  rattling  wheels  along  the  street, 
The  pushing  crowd  with  hasty  feet, 
The  schoolboy's  call,  the  gossip's  story, 
The  lawyer's  purchased  oratory, 
The  glib-tongued  shopman  with  his  wares, 
The  chattering  schoolgirl  with  her  airs, 
The  moaning  sick  man  on  his  bed, 
The  coffin  nailing  for  the  dead, 
The  new-born  infant's  lusty  wail, 
The  bells  that  bade  the  bridal  hail, 
The  factory's  wheels  that  round  and  round 
Forever  turn,  and  with  their  sound 
Make  the  young  children  deaf  to  all 
God's  voices  that  about  them  call, 
Sweet  sounds  of  bird  and  wind  and  wave; 
And  Life  no  gladder  than  a  grave. 

These  myriad,  mingled  human  voices, 
These  intertwined  and  various  noises 
Made  up  the  murmur  that  I  heard 
Through  the  sweet  hymn  of  bee  and  bird. 
I  said — "  If  all  these  sounds  of  life 
With  which  the  noontide  air  is  rife, 
These  busy  murmurings  of  the  bee 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

Robbing  the  honied  maple  tree, 

These  warblings  of  the  song-birds'  voices, 

With  which  the  blooming  hedge  rejoices, 

These  harsher  mortal  chords  that  rise 

To  mar  Earth's  anthem  to  the  skies, 

If  all  these  sounds  fall  on  my  ear 

So  little  varying — yet  so  near — 

How  can  I  tell  if  God  can  know 

A  cry  of  human  joy  or  woe 

From  the  loud  humming  of  the  bee, 

Or  the  blithe  robin's  melody?  " 

God  sitteth  somewhere  in  his  heaven — 
About  him  sing  the  planets  seven  ; 
With  every  thought  a  world  is  made, 
To  grow  in  sun  or  droop  in  shade  ; 
He  holds  Creation  like  a  flower 
In  his  right  hand — an  aeon's  hour — 
It  fades,  it  dies, — another's  bloom 
Makes  the  air  sweet  with  fresh  perfume. 
Or,  did  he  listen  on  that  day 
To  what  the  rolling  Earth  might  say  ? 
Or,  did  he  mark,  as,  one  by  one, 
The  gliding  hours  in  light  were  spun  ? 
And  if  he  heard  the  choral  hymn 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

The  Earth  sent  up  to  honor  him, 
Which  note  rose  sweetest  to  his  ear  ? 
Which  murmur  did  he  gladliest  hear? 

The  Theses,  t/lpril, 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


ABRAM  AND  ZIMRI       . 

Poem  founded  on  a  Rabinnical  Legend 

ABRAM  and  Zimri  owned  a  field  together, 
A  level  field,  hid  in  a  happy  vale; 
They  ploughed  it  with  one  plough,  and  in  the 

spring 

Sowed,  walking  side  by  side,  the  fruitful  grain; 
Each  carried  to  his  home  one-half  the  sheaves, 
And  stored  them,  with  much  labor,  in  his  barns. 
Now  Abram  had  a  wife  and  seven  sons, 
But  Zimri  dwelt  alone  within  his  house. 
One  night,  before  the  sheaves  were  gathered  in, 
As  Zimri  lay  upon  his  lonely  bed, 
And  counted  in  his  mind  his  little  gains, 
He  thought  upon  his  brother  Abram 's  lot, 
And  said,  "  I  dwell  alone  within  my  house, 
But  Abram  hath  a  wife  and  seven  sons; 
And  yet  we  share  the  harvest  sheaves  alike : 
He  surely  needeth  more  for  life  than  I: 
1  will  arise  and  gird  myself,  and  go 
Down  to  the  field,  and  add  to  his  from  mine." 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

So  he  arose  and  girded  up  his  loins, 

And  went  out  softly  to  the  level  field. 

The  moon  shone  out  from  dusky  bars  of  clouds, 

The  trees  stood  black  against  the  cold  blue  sky, 

The  branches  waved  and  whispered  in  the  wind. 

So  Zimri,  guided  by  the  shifting  light, 

Went  down  the  mountain  path,  and  found  the 

field; 

Took  from  his  store  of  sheave  a  generous  third, 
And  bore  them  gladly  to  his  brother's  heap, 
And  then  went  back  to  sleep  and  happy  dreams. 

Now  that  same  night,  as  Abram  lay  in  bed, 
Thinking  upon  his  blissful  state  in  life, 
He  thought  upon  his  brother  Zimri's  lot, 
And  said,  "  He  dwells  within  his  house  alone, 
He  goeth  forth  to  toil  with  few  to  help, 
He  goeth  home  at  night  to  a  cold  house, 
And  hath  few  other  friends  but  me  and  mine 
(For  these  two  tilled  the  happy  vale  alone), 
While  I,  whom  Heaven  hath  very  greatly  blessed, 
Dwell  happy  with  my  wife  and  seven  sons, 
Who  aid  me  in  my  toil,  and  make  it  light; 
And  yet  we  share  the  harvest  sheaves  alike ; 
This,  surely,  is  not  pleasing  unto  God. 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

I  will  arise  and  gird  myself,  and  go 

Out  to  the  field,  and  borrow  from  my  store, 

And  add  unto  my  brother  Zimri's  pile." 

So  he  arose  and  girded  up  his  loins, 

And  went  down  softly  to  the  level  field. 

The  moon  shone  out  from  silver  bars  of  clouds, 

The  trees  stood  black  against  the  starry  sky, 

The  dark  leaves  waved  and  whispered   in  the 

breeze; 

So  Abram,  guided  by  the  doubtful  light, 
Passed  down  the  mountain  path,  and  found  the 

field, 

Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  third, 
And  added  them  unto  his  brother's  heap; 
Then  he  went  back  to  sleep  and  happy  dreams. 

So  the  next  morning,  with  the  early  sun, 
The  brothers  rose  and  went  out  to  their  toil ; 
And  when  they  came  to  see  the  heavy  sheaves, 
Each  wondered  in  his  heart  to  find  his  heap, 
Though  he  had  given  a  third,  was  still  the  same. 

Now  the  next  night  went  Zimri  to  the  field, 
Took  from  his  store  of  sheaves  a  generous  share 

8 


POEMS   BY    CLARENCE   COOK 

And  placed  them  on  his  brother  Abram's  heap; 
And  then  lay  down  behind  his  pile  to  watch. 
The  moon  looked  out  from  bars  of  silvery  cloud, 
The  cedars  stood  up  black  against  the  sky, 
The  olive  branches  whispered  in  the  wind. 
Then  Abram  came  down  softly  from  his  home, 
And,  looking  to  the  left  and  right,  went  on, 
Took  from  his  ample  store  a  generous  third, 
And  laid  it  on  his  brother  Zimri's  pile. 
Then  Zimri  rose  and  caught  him  in  his  arms, 
And  wept  upon  his  neck  and  kissed  his  cheek, 
And  Abram  saw  the  whole,  and  could  not  speak, 
Neither  could  Zimri,  for  their  hearts  were  full. 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


AN  APRIL  VIOLET 

PALE  flower,  that  by  this  stone 
Sweetenest  the  air  alone, 
While  round  thee  falls  the  snow 
And  the  rude  wind  doth  blow. 
What  thought  doth  make  thee  pine 
Pale  Flower,  can  I  divine? 

Say,  does  this  trouble  thee 
That  all  things  fickle  be  ? 
The  wind  that  buffets  so 
Was  kind  an  hour  ago. 
The  sun,  a  cloud  doth  hide, 
Cheered  thee  at  morning  tide. 

The  busy  pleasuring  bee 
Sought  thee  for  company. 
The  little  sparrows  near 
Sang  thee  their  ballads  clear. 
The  maples  on  thy  head 
Their  spicy  blossoms  shed. 

10 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

Because  the  storm  made  dumb 
The  wild  bees  booming  hum; 
Because  for  shivering 
The  sparrows  cannot  sing  ; 
Is  this  the  reason  why 
Thou  look'st  so  woefully  ? 

To-morrow's  laughing  sun 
Will  cheer  thee,  pallid  one; 
To-morrow  will  bring  back 
The  gay  bee  on  his  track, 
Bursting  thy  cloister  dim 
With  his  wild  roistering. 

Canst  thou  not  wait  the  morrow, 

That  rids  thee  of  thy  sorrow? 

Art  thou  too  desolate 

To  smile  at  any  fate  ? 

Then  there  is  naught  for  thee 

But  Death's  delivery. 

Tbe  Roses,  May  4,  1853. 


POEMS   BY    CLARENCE   COOK 


REGRET 

1    OOK  out,  sad  heart,  through  wintry  eyes 
***     To  see  thy  summer  go : 
How  pallid  are  thy  bluest  skies 
Behind  this  veiling  snow. 


Look  out  upon  thy  purple  hills, 

That  all  the  summer  long, 
Laughed  with  an  hundred  laughing  rills, 

And  sang  their  summer  song. 

You  only  see  the  sheeted  snow 

That  covers  grass  and  tree  ; 
The  frozen  streamlets  cannot  flow, 

No  bird  dares  sing  to  thee. 

Look  out  upon  Life's  summer  days 
That  fade  like  summer  flowers  ; 

What  golden  fruitage  for  thy  praise, 
From  all  those  bounteous  hours  ? 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

Sings  any  bird,  or  any  wind 
Amid  thy  falling  leaves  ? 

Why  is  it,  if  thou  look'st  behind, 
Thy  heart  forever  grieves  ? 

Newburgb,  January  4,  1854. 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


L'ENNUI 

April  grass,  so  truly 
My  wish  for  spring  divining, 
Oh  April  sun,  so  gaily 
In  at  my  window  shining, 

What  cheer  can  ye  impart 
Unto  a  faded  heart  ? 

Oh  thoughts  of  Summer  days 

Born  of  the  violet's  blue. 
Oh  wooing  western  wind, 
That  maketh  all  things  new — 
What  cheer  can  ye  impart 
Unto  a  faded  heart  ? 

Oh  mountains  brown  and  sere, 

Mantled  in  morning  light, 
Oh  golden  sunset  sea 

Wrecked  on  the  shores  of  night, 
What  cheer  can  ye  impart 
Unto  a  faded  heart  ? 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

Oh  longings  evermore 

For  some  ungiven  good, 

Oh  yearnings  to  make  clear 

The  dimly  understood, 

What  cheer  can  ye  impart 
Unto  a  faded  heart  ? 

Cover  thy  weary  eyes 

With  hands  too  weak  for  prayer, 
Think  on  the  happy  past, 
From  other  thoughts  forbear 
Which  can  no  cheer  impart 
Unto  a  hopeless  heart. 

The  T{oses,  April  20,  185). 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


ASPIRATION 

THOU  sea,  whose  tireless  waves 
Forever  seek  the  shore, 
Striving  to  clamber  higher, 
Yet  failing  evermore; 

Why  wilt  thou  still  aspire 
Though  losing  thy  desire  ? 

Thou  sun,  whose  constant  feet 

Mount  ever  to  thy  noon, 
Thou  canst  not  there  remain, 
Night  quenches  thee  so  soon ; 
Why  wilt  thou  still  aspire 
Though  losing  thy  desire  ? 

Rose,  in  my  garden  growing, 

Unharmed  by  winter's  snows, 
Another  winter  cometh 
Ere  all  thy  buds  unclose; 

Why  wilt  thou  still  aspire 
Though  losing  thy  desire  ? 

16 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

Mortal,  with  feeble  hands 

Striving  some  work  to  do, 
Fate,  with  her  cruel  shears, 
Doth  all  thy  steps  pursue ; 
Why  wilt  thou  still  aspire 
Though  losing  thy  desire? 


The  Roses,  Newburgb, 
April  2/, 


'7 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


THE  SOUL'S  QUESTION 

Inscribed  to  'Hev.  A.  Dwight  Mayo 

DEAR  friend,  in  whom  my  soul  abides, 
Who  rulest  all  its  wayward  tides, 
Accept  the  feeble  song  I  sing, 
And  read  aright  my  stammering. 

i 

As  on  my  bed  at  night  I  lay, 
My  soul,  who  all  the  weary  day 
Had  fought  with  thoughts  of  death  and  life, 
Began  again  the  bitter  strife. 

ii 

This  question  would  she  ask,  until 
My  tired  eyes  with  tears  would  fill, 
And  overrun  and  fill  again; 
So  that  I  cried  out  in  my  pain — 

18 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE    COOK 
HI 

"  When  thou  art  made  a  heap  of  earth, 
And  all  thy  gain  is  nothing  worth, 
Where  shall  I  go  ?     Shall  I  too  die 
And  fade  in  utter  entity  ? 

IV 

"  Shall  my  fine  essence  be  the  sport 
Of  idle  chance  and  fade  to  nought; 
The  morning  dew  upon  the  flower 
Dried  by  the  sunlight  in  an  hour  ? 


"  Doth  God  with  careless  eyes  look  down 
On  peopled  slope  and  crowded  town, 
And,  though  he  mark  the  sparrow's  death, 
Think  nothing  more  of  human  breath  ? 

VI 

"Or  if  I  shall  not  die,  but  live— 
What  other  dwelling  will  he  give 
In  which  to  lead  another  life 
And  wage  anew  the  ended  strife  ? 

'9 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


"  Turn  up  to  heaven  thy  streaming  face, 
And  glance  athwart  the  starry  space; 
What  planet,  burning  in  the  blue, 
Shall  hold  thy  life  begun  anew  ?" 


I  looked  out  on  the  still  midnight, 
A  thousand  stars  were  flashing  bright; 
Unclouded  shone  the  sailing  moon 
And  filled  with  pallor  all  the  room. 


The  earth  was  hid  with  silver  snow, 

I  heard  the  river's  steady  flow, 

1  saw  the  moonlight  softly  fall 

On  running  stream  and  mountain  wall. 


I  found  no  peace  in  gazing  here; 
The  earth  seemed  cold  and  very  drear; 
River  and  mountain  bathed  in  light, 
Were  grim  and  ghastly  in  my  sight. 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


The  mountain  wall — a  hand  divine 
Drew  on  the  sky  its  perfect  line — 
Said  to  my  soul,  "  Of  this  be  sure, 
Thy  race  shall  die,  but  I  endure. 


' '  And  while  I  take  the  morning's  kiss 
On  my  brows  bathed  in  crimson  bliss 
Or  listen  to  the  eternal  song 
The  seven  great  spheres  in  heaven  prolong. 


"  While  on  my  sides  the  cedar  grows 
Through  summer's  suns  and  winter's  snows, 
Or  while  1  rock  my  piny  crown, 
Whose  high  tops  draw  the  lightning  down, 

XIV 

"  So  long  as  I  in  might  endure 
I  watch  man  fading,  swift  and  sure; 
I  smile,  and  whisper  to  my  flowers, 
Man  dieth  and  the  earth  is  ours—" 


21 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


A  scalding  tear  rolled  down  my  cheek, 
Through  thickening  sobs  I  strove  to  speak; 
"  Are  those  the  hills  1  saw  to-night 
Mantled  in  pomp  of  purple  light  ?  " 


All  day  the  earth  on  every  side 

Lay  robed  in  vesture  of  a  bride, 

While  lit  on  snow-wreathed  bush  and  tree 

The  winter  birds  sang  joyfully. 


The  river  sparkled  cold  and  keen 
With  burnished  tracts  of  wintry  gleam ; 
Above,  the  sky's  unclouded  blue 
The  smile  of  God  on  all  things  threw. 


O'er  hill  and  field  elate  I  walked, 
With  all  things  fair  by  turns  I  talked; 
I  felt  the  God  within  me  move 
And  nothing  seemed  too  mean  for  Love. 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 
XIX 

The  flower  of  day  that  bloomed  so  fair 
Closed  on  the  perfumed  evening  air; 
A  holy  calm  o'er  Nature  stole 
And  bathed  in  prayer  my  happy  soul. 


A  golden  glory  caught  the  world; — 
High  up  the  crimson  clouds  were  curled, 
A  purple  splendor  hid  the  sun 
A  moment — and  the  day  was  done. 

XXI 

I  gazed  at  will;  my  thankful  eyes 
Were  bathed  in  dews  of  Paradise; 
My  heart  ran  out  my  God  to  meet, 
And  clasped  his  knees  and  kissed  his  feet. 


He  led  me  like  a  little  child 
Whereso  he  would;  the  darkness  smiled 
Whereso  we  walked;  such  glory  of  light 
Enshrined  him,  making  very  bright 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE    COOK 


Whatever  darkness  veiled  my  mind; 
I  looked  on  all  the  grief  behind 
As  on  a  fevered  dream.     To-night 
The  peace  is  gone  and  gone  the  light  " 

XXIV 

1  prayed  for  sleep,  an  earnest  prayer 
1  thought  that  God  would  surely  hear; 
Yet,  though  my  tears  fell  fast  and  free, 
He  kept  his  boon  of  sleep  from  me. 

XXV 

Again  my  soul  her  quest  began — 
"  Must  I  too  fall  beneath  the  ban  ? 
And,  if  I  die  not  in  thy  death, 
Where  shall  I  live  who  am  but  breath  ? 


"  When  the  frame  stiffens  into  stone, 

And  death  and  it  are  left  alone, 

And  round  about  it  in  the  grave 

The  rat  shall  gnaw  and  winds  shall  rave, 

24 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


"  Shall  I  within  the  dwelling  stay 
To  watch  above  the  heap  of  clay, 
And  while  the  dreary  ages  roll 
Lie  housed  in  earth,  a  prisoned  soul?'' 


If  this  be  Hell,  to  sit  and  hear 
The  hum  of  life  from  year  to  year, 
Yet  have  no  part  nor  lot  in  all 
That  men  do  on  this  earthly  ball, 


But  sit  and  watch  from  hour  to  hour 
The  slow  decay  of  beauty  and  power, 
And  when  the  last  faint  trace  is  gone 
To  sit  there  still  and  still  watch  on, 

XXX 

While  other  men  shall  share  my  doom 
And  other  souls  within  the  tomb 
Shall  sit  beside  me  dumb  and  pale 
Forever  in  that  fearful  vale — " 

25 


POEMS    BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


With  that,  cold  sweat  ran  down  my  face 
I  rose  up  straightway  in  my  place 
I  lit  my  lamp,  my  Bible  took 
And  sat  to  read  the  blessed  Book. 

XXXII 

I  turned  the  pages  to  and  fro 

Not  knowing  where  to  read,  and  so 

Sat  very  still  with  tightened  breath 

Till  I  could  catch  that  one  word— "death  " 

XXXIII 

"  Cain  " — the  page  blackened  as  I  read 
The  awful  name  of  him  who  led 
God's  curse  like  lightning  down  to  earth, 
Blasting  and  scarring  home  and  hearth. 

xxxiv 

1  turned  the  page  ;  I  read  the  line 

Of  those  old  men,  the  half  divine, 

Of  whom  no  record  is  supplied 

But,  "  thus  he  lived,  and  then,  he  died — " 

26 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


Not  any  comfort  could  I  find, 
A  sudden  sickness  seized  my  mind, 
I  felt  my  heart  beat  slow  and  weak 
I  tried  to  pray,  I  could  not  speak. 


Oh!  bitterness  beyond  compare. 
When  our  last  refuge  fades  to  air  ; 
Where  shall  the  hopeless  soul  repose, 
For  who  is  there  that  surely  knows  ? 

XXXVII 

I  read  how  Saul  in  wild  En-dor 
Questioned  the  witch,  and  what  he  saw. 
How  Samuel's  ghost  rose  pale  and  grim 
Out  of  the  grave  and  answered  him. 


I  read  the  awful  words  he  said — 
"  Why  am  I  thus  disquieted  ?  " 
"  Disquieted" — what  dreamless  sleep 
Weighed  on  his  eyelids  calm  and  deep  ? 

27 


POEMS    BY   CLARENCE    COOK 


Thereat  I  shook  from  head  to  foot — 
I  made  no  cry,  my  heart  was  mute  ; 
I  could  not  call  on  God,  nor  pray, 
For  all  my  faith  had  fled  away. 

XL 

As  when  a  man,  who  in  a  dream 

To  slide  down  some  blank  wall  shall  seem, 

Clutches  at  air,  strikes  out  in  vain 

His  helpless  hands  and  shrieks  with  pain, 

XLI 

While  all  the  air  with  mocking  eyes 
Is  full,  foul  shapes  and  soundless  cries 
That  laugh  to  scorn  his  deadly  fear 
With  laughter  that  he  swoons  to  hear, 

XLH 

And  swooning  wakes  :  my  helpless  soul 
Felt  the  dim  waves  above  her  roll, 
The  firm  earth  slide  beneath  her  feet, 
And  all  her  agony  complete. 

28 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


I  read  that  Christ  had  conquered  Death 
By  giving  up  his  holy  breath  ; 
And  calling  Lazarus  by  his  name 
Had  brought  him  back  to  life  again. 


What  these  things  mean  I  cannot  say  ; 
They  do  not  drive  my  fear  away, 
For  where  was  Lazarus  when  he  heard 
The  voice  of  Christ  pronounce  that  word  ? 


Was  he  within  the  voiceless  tomb 
Beside  his  sometime  earthly  home, 
Watching  the  slowly  changing  form 
Yield  to  the  touch  of  mole  and  worm  ? 

XLVI 

Or  was  he  in  some  blessed  place 
A  saint,  with  glory  in  his  face  ; 
And  did  he  drop,  a  gliding  star 
Down  to  the  earth  where  mortals  are  ? 

29 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


And  clothe  himself  in  dust  again 
To  share  the  bitter  life  of  men, 
To  live  a  few  dark  years  below 
And  back  again  to  glory  go  ? 


This  thought  raised  up  my  fainting  heart 
And  somewhat  eased  the  deadly  smart, 
My  lips  began  to  move  in  prayer — 
My  soul  to  breathe  a  freer  air. 


I  prayed  for  peace,  I  prayed  for  trust ; 
I  prayed  to  feel  that  God  is  just ; 
I  prayed  that  let  what  would  befall 
I  still  might  trust  Him  over  all. 


And  whether  sunk  in  deadly  gloom 
The  soul  must  rest  within  the  tomb  ; 
Or  sit  within  God's  awful  light 
To  which  the  sun's  blaze  is  as  night  ? 

30 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


Or  shape  its  course  from  life  to  life 
And  waxing  strong  in  endless  strife, 
Through  everlasting  years  pursue 
The  work  that  God  shall  give  to  do  ? 


I  might,  without  a  fear,  lay  down 
When  he  shall  call,  my  earthly  crown, 
Trusting  that  he  who  gave  me  breath 
Will  keep  me  in  the  day  of  death. 

LIU 

I  looked  again  upon  the  earth. 
The  day  rejoiced  in  its  birth  ; 
And  on  the  sullen  rack  afar 
Trembled  the  fading  morning  star! 

Wriiten  1849. 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


ASSERTION 

TOO  late,  I  drew  from  scanty  springs 
The  barren  cheer  that  in  them  lies. 
Too  late,  I  fettered  eager  wings 
That  longed  to  bathe  in  bluer  skies. 

Too  late,  I  squandered  golden  hours 
God  gave  me  for  his  praise  to  spend. 

Too  late,  1  gathered  idle  flowers 
Forgetful  of  my  journey's  end. 

God  needs  my  deed ;  however  small 
The  help  I  lend,  to  work  his  will, 

Not  without  grief  he  sees  me  fall. 
Or  fail  his  purpose  to  fulfil. 

ew  York,  March  i, 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


THE   APPLE 

T  PICKED  an  apple  from  the  ground, 

A  perfect  apple,  red  and  round. 
Us  spicy  perfume  shy  and  sweet, 
Stole  from  the  ground  beneath  my  feet, 
Borne  on  a  wind  that  lightly  flew, 
Through  the  deep  dome  of  cloudless  blue. 
A  swarm  of  ants  had  found  the  prize, 
Before  it  met  my  wandering  eyes, 
And  careless  in  their  busy  pleasure, 
Ran  o'er  and  o'er  the  fragrant  treasure. 
I  blew  them  off,  nor  cared  to  know 
Whither  the  luckless  things  might  go. 
So  He  who  holdeth  in  his  hand 
This  perfect  world  on  which  we  stand, 
Blows  us,  ah,  whither  ?  with  His  breath, 
Our  friends  who  miss  us  call  it  "  Death  !  " 


33 


POEMS    BY   CLARENCE    COOK 


FOR  EASTER  DAY 
i 

THIS  is  the  Easter! 
Day  of  rejoicing! 
Day  of  renewing! 
See  how  the  roseate, 
Delicate,  virginal 
Feet  of  the  Morning 
Haste  o'er  the  mountains 
joyful  to  meet  her! 

u 

Welcome  the  Easter! 
Day  of  renewing! 
Day  of  rejoicing! 

The  snow  has  departed, 

The  rain  is  assuaged, 
The  winter  is  gone! 

Lo!  on  Earth's  bosom 
The  rainbow  of  promise, 
The  rainbow  of  springtime, 
The  rainbow  of  flowers! 

54 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 
III 

This  is  the  Easter! 

Day  of  uprising! 

Day  of  renewing! 
Heart,  take  new  courage! 
Look  no  more  downward! 

See,  the  sun  rising! 

Hark,  the  bird  singing! 

See,  the  grass  springing! 

The  brook  floweth  free! 
Hand  to  the  plough,  man! 

Cut  deep  the  furrow, 

Cast  thy  seed  strongly! 

Think  not  of  sorrow ! 

Of  death  or  of  sin! 
To-day,  let  thy  future 

Burst  from  its  cerements, — 

Roll  back  the  Grave  stone! 
To-day,  Life  immortal! 

Oh,  mortal!  begin! 

New  York,  April  2,  1877. 


35 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


ON  ONE  WHO  DIED  IN  MAY 

John  H.  Ellis,  May  3,  1870 

\A/HY  Death» what  dost  thou»  here» 

*       This  time  o'  year  ? 
Peach-blow,  and  apple-blossom; 
Clouds,  white  as  my  love's  bosom ; 

Warm  wind  o'  the  West 

Cradling  the  robin's  nest; 
Young  meadows,  hasting  their  green  laps  to  fill 
With  golden  dandelion  and  daffodil; — 

These  are  fit  sights  for  spring; 

But,  oh,  thou  hateful  thing, 
What  dost  thou  here? 

Why,  Death,  what  dost  thou  here 

This  time  o'  year  ? 
Fair,  at  the  old  oak's  knee, 

The  young  anemone; 

36 


POEMS    BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

Fair,  the  plash  places  set 
With  dog-tooth  violet; 
The  first  sloop-sail, 
The  shad-flower  pale; 
Sweet  are  all  sights, 

Sweet  are  all  sounds  of  Spring; 
But  thou,  thou  ugly  thing, 
What  dost  thou,  here  ? 


Dark  Death  let  fall  a  tear. 

Why  am  I  here  ? 

Oh,  heart  ungrateful!     Will  man  never  know 
I  am  his  friend,  nor  ever  was  his  foe  ? 
Whose  the  sweet  season,  then,  if  it  be  not  mine? 
Mine,  not  the  bobolink's,  that  song  divine 
Chasing  the  shadows  o'er  the  flying  wheat! 
Tis  a  dead  voice,  not  his,  that  sounds  so  sweet. 
Whose  passionate  heart  burns  in  this  flaming  rose 
But  his,  whose  passionate  heart  long  since  lay 

still  ? 
Whose  wan  hope  pales  this  nun-like  lily  tall, 

Beside  the  garden  wall, 
But  hers,  whose  radiant  eyes  and  lily  grace, 
Sleep  in  the  grave  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill ! 

37 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

All  Hope,  all  Memory 
Have  their  deep  springs  in  me, 
And  Love,  that  else  might  fade, 
By  me  immortal  made, 

Spurns  at  the  grave,  leaps  to  the  welcoming  skies, 
And  burns  a  steadfast  star  to  steadfast  eyes. 


POEMS   BY    CLARENCE   COOK 


THE  YEW  TREE 

TAKE  this  small  slip  of  sombre  yew 
And  lay  it  on  thy  breast; 
There,  underneath  thy  downcast  eyes, 
Let  the  sad  emblem  rest — 
Thy  tears  may  fall  upon  it. 

I  pulled  it  from  a  little  tree 

That  just  begins  to  grow — 

Once  only  has  it  seen  the  sun 

And  only  once  the  snow — 
Thy  tears  may  rain  upon  it. 

The  garden  where  it  grew  is  sad 

Before  all  other  places, 
Death's  shadow  up  and  down  its  walks 
Forever  darkly  paces — 

Thy  tears  have  fallen  in  it. 

39 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

These  yew  trees  stand,  a  pallid  ring 

Upon  the  sunlit  lawn — 
He  planted  them  the  very  year 
That  we  were  left  to  mourn — 

Our  tears  fell  freely  for  it. 

They  stood  like  mourners  round  a  grave 

Who  look  within,  to  see 
Where  lie  the  ashes,  while  the  fire 
Spires  upward,  clear  and  free. 


40 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


THE  IMMORTAL 

OOMEWHERE  in  silent  starry  lands, 
^     Forlorn  with  cold  or  faint  with  heat, 
He  folds  his  ever  active  hands, 
And  rest  his  never-resting  feet. 

A  windless  light  illumes  his  skies  ; 

A  moonless  night,  a  sunless  day, 
Unheeded  by  his  careless  eyes, 

Arise,  and  fade,  and  pass  away. 

All  day  his  constant  thoughts  recall 
The  blissful  past,  forever  fled  ; 

A  golden  light  illumines  all 
The  ghostly  memories  of  the  dead. 

Once  more  adown  his  garden  walks 
He  moves  serene  from  flower  to  flower : 

His  wife  beside  him  gaily  talks, 
He  listens  gladly  hour  by  hour. 

4' 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

But  when  he  turns  to  kiss  the  lips, 
Or  when  he  thinks  the  form  to  press 

Of  her  he  loves — his  hope's  eclipse 
Renews  the  former  bitterness. 

In  nightly  dreams  his  tireless  wings 
Convey  him  far  to  where  she  lies 

Folded  in  slumber,  while  he  sings 
Low  in  her  ear  his  lullabies. 

He  wakes — the  happy  dream  is  o'er, 
The  slow,  dull  heart-ache  gnaws  again, 

Within  his  soul  forevermore 
A  long-enduring  death  of  pain. 

With  her  the  suns  arise  and  set, 
The  singing  stars  renew  their  light, 

Deep  in  her  heart  one  wild  regret 
Moans  for  his  presence  day  and  night. 

I  well  believe  God  loves  thee  still, 
To  whatsoever  planet  borne  ; 

Breathing  the  bright  auroral  airs 
That  haunt  some  glad  eternal  morn. 

4* 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

Walking  with  fair,  unclouded  eyes 
Beside  the  slow  unfailing  streams, 

Lulled  in  the  memories  of  the  Past, 
An  ever  gliding  dance  of  dreams. 

The  ills  that  fret  our  feeble  hearts, 
The  toils  in  which  thy  life  had  share, 

The  slender  joys  that  make  us  glad 
In  quiet  moments  snatched  from  care. 

These  memories  of  a  vanished  life, 
Pass  dim  before  thine  altered  mind, 

As  visions  of  the  earth  and  sky 
Come  to  a  man  whose  eyes  are  blind. 

To  whom  the  sun  in  cloudless  light 
Forever  shines  ;  forever  grow 

The  flowers  ;  the  woods  in  beauty  wave 
Unchanged  ;  the  constant  planets  glow. 

All  night  above  thy  peaceful  head, 
The  sky  is  bright  with  burning  stars; 

To  thee  the  opening  morning  brings 
No  news  of  peace,  nor  sound  of  wars; 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE   COOK 

Sole  tenant  of  thy  starry  home; 

Uncheered  by  friend,  unvexed  by  foe ; 
Down  the  slow  tide  of  lapsing  time 

Thy  tranquil  days  in  silence  go. 

Waiting  with  calm,  expectant  eyes 
The  hour  that  makes  her  wholly  thine 

Secure  from  all  the  blows  of  Fate 

And  all  the  mischiefs  wrought  by  Time. 

Mrs.  Downing's,  /Ipril,  185). 


44 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


TWO  MAYS 

IT  ERE  is  the  stile  on  which  I  leaned; — 

This  golden  willow  bending  over; — 
Yonder's  the  same  blue  sky  that  gleamed 
The  day  that  I  murmured,  "  I  am  thy  lover." 

This  is  the  stone  on  which  she  sat; 

See  here  the  bright  moss  freshly  springing, 
And  look!  overhead  the  same  bluebirds 

Back  and  forth  from  the  old  nest  winging. 

Here  is  the  briar  whose  flowers  she  pulled 
Leaf  by  leaf  as  she  heard  my  pleading. 

Swayed  by  the  same  idle  April  wind 
That  laughed  as  it  flew,  Love's  pang  unheed 
ing. 

Sky,  trees,  flowers — the  same;  but  /.? — 
Am  I  the  same  boy  whose  wild  heart  burning 

Leapt  to  one  heart  in  the  sweet  wild  world! 
Stilled  on  one  bosom  its  passionate  yearning  ? 

45 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

Silk-soft  hair  and  hazel  eyes, 

Limbs  that  lightly  moved  or  stood 

And  a  heart  that  beat  with  a  loyal  love 
For  all  things  beautiful,  true  and  good. 

Follies  that  flecked  this  fairest  fruit, 
Sins  that  spotted  this  whitest  page, 

Changed  without,  but  the  same  within, 
Life's  rose  untouched  by  the  frost  of  age. 

Thou,  too,  beloved,  art  still  the  same, 
Deep  heart,  passionate,  tender  and  true, 

The  same  clear  spirit  and  glancing  wit 
Piercing  the  armor  of  folly  through. 

Sad,  olivaster,  Spanish  face, 
Sweet  low  brow  under  shadowy  hair, 

Dark  eyes  mingled  of  tears  and  fire, 
Voice  like  a  song-bird's  heard  through  a  prayer. 

Time!  if  thou  steal  her  girlish  beauty, 
Leave  her  spirit  undimmed  and  free. 

Touch  the  rose  with  thy  frosty  fingers, 
But  the  rose's  perfume  stays  with  me. 

46 


POEMS  BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


WIND  HARPINGS 

FAINT  smell  of  box 
In  the  evening  air, 
Faint  bleat  of  flocks 
From  fields  afar; 
On  the  gray  rocks, 

The  lap  and  lapse 
Of  the  wan  water. 

The  sunset  fields 

Stretch  fair  and  far. 
Mid  the  winrowed  clouds 

The  sickle  moon 
Has  dipt  a  star! 

Pale  golden  bloom ! 
First  flower  of  the  night! 

It  trembles  down 
To  the  sunset  streak, 

Light  lost  in  light ! 

47 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

In  the  pleached  bower, 

In  the  garden  old, 
Hand  closed  in  hand, 

We  sit  together. 
We  do  not  speak. 
A  wind  from  the  pine 

With  fingers  fine, 
Lays  her  warm  hair 

Against  my  cheek. 

Sweet  silent  hour! 

As  flower  to  flower 
Heart  speaks  to  heart 

As  star  to  star! 
Oh,  hawthorn  bower 

Oh,  garden  old 
How  dear,  how  sad 

Your  memories  are! 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


A  VALENTINE 

D  RING  me  my  lute,  the  sunlight  fades  ; 

The  evening  breezes,  soft  and  low, 
From  the  far  South  begin  to  blow. 

Here  will  I  watch  the  dying  day  : 
Here  will  I  watch  the  pallid  skies 
Rush  with  a  myriad  changing  dyes. 

What  joy  to  see  the  fairy  moon 
Cradled  in  folds  of  rosy  light, 
The  baby  sovereign  of  the  night. 

What  joy  to  hear,  from  far  away, 
The  rolling  mill-stream  roaring  go 
Between  his  banks  of  ice  and  snow  ; 

Or  from  the  distant  mountain's  side, 

To  hear  the  murmuring  wind,  that  brings 
Promise  of  Spring  between  its  wings. 

49 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

Here  at  my  window  will  I  sit ; 
Here,  will  I  let  the  peaceful  hour 
Try  on  my  heart  her  aery  power. 

This  happy  season  sings  of  Thee, 
Where'er  I  turn  my  careless  eyes 
Thine  image  will  before  them  rise  ; 

Not  as  thou  art  in  human  form  ; 
I  cannot  shape  thy  phantom  so, 
The  fleeting  shadows  come  and  go. 

Thy  face  is  fair  with  roseate  bloom — 
I  lift  my  eyes  and  lo!  the  sun 
Reddens  the  cloud  he  looks  upon — 

Thine  eyes  with  deepening  azure  smile 
Beyond  the  hills  a  line  of  blue 
Recalls  the  sunlit  morning's  dew. 

On  either  side  thy  thoughtful  brow 
Thy  golden  hair  is  floating  free — 
Yon  golden  cloud  is  fair  to  see — 

50 


POEMS    BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

As  floating  from  the  purple  West, 
Its  glory  slowly  gathers  dun 
And  fadeth  with  the  fading  sun. 

Ah!  was  it  all  an  idle  dream? 
A  fleeting  sunset  fed  my  thought, 
And  all  this  cloudy  vision  wrought  ? 

Or  does  the  maiden  somewhere  bloom 
Whom  Nature  cannot  paint  aright 
Her  beauty  is  so  passing  bright  ? 


5' 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


COMING  — COME 

T  T  O  W  dreary  are  the  crowded  streets 

With  not  a  soul  abroad  ! 
How  sunless  is  the  sunny  sky ! 

No  fire  on  hearth,  no  mirth  at  board! 
How  long  the  nights,  how  slow  the  day! 
My  love's  away!     My  love's  away! 

How  gay  the  crowded  city  streets! 

How  cheerily  shines  the  sun! 
Dances  the  fire,  and  round  the  board 

From  lip  to  lip  the  greetings  run ! 
No  longer  in  the  dumps  I  roam — 
My  love's  come  home!      My  love's  come 
home! 


POEMS    BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

ULYSSES  AND  THE  SIRENS 

OH  ye  maids,  with  deep  and  rosy  bosoms! 
Oh  ye  maids,  with  darkly  flowing  locks! 
Wherefore  is  it  that  with  songs  ye  woo  me 
Sitting  in  the  shadows  of  the  rocks  ? 

Well  hath  she,  the  enchantress  Circe  told  me, 

All  the  evil  that  shall  on  me  fall ; 
If  I  follow  where  your  white  feet  lead  me 

Or  give  answer  when  your  voices  call. 

Oh  my  comrades,  bind  me  to  the  mainmast, 
Stop  my  ears  with  wax  and  bind  my  hands, 

Close  my  eyes  that  so  no  sight  nor  murmur 
Of  the  singer  or  the  song  steal  to  me  from  the 
sands. 

In  the  west  the  blood-red  sun  is  sinking, 

And  the  angry  billows  redly  glow, 
With  the  dying  breeze  the  song  is  dying. 

Ply  the  oars,  my  comrades,  let  us  go! 

Tarrytown,  1844. 

53 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 


OTTILIA 

Miss  Mary  Hamilton,  afterwards 
Mrs.  George  Schuyler 

A    LOW,  sad  brow  with  folded  hair; 
•**•     From  whose  deep  night  one  pallid  rose 
White  moonlight  through  the  darkness  throws. 

A  head,  whose  lordly,  only  crown 
Of  Pride,  Olympian  Juno  might 
Have  worn  for  the  great  God's  delight. 

Deep  eyes  immixed  of  Night  and  Fire, 
In  whose  large  motion  you  might  see 
Her  royal  soul  lived  royally. 

Unstained  by  any  earthly  soil, 
And  only  caring  to  walk  straight 
The  road  ordained  to  her  by  Fate. 

Her  jewelled  hands  across  the  keys 
Flashed  through  the  twilight  of  the  room, 
A  double  light  of  gem  and  tune. 


54 


POEMS   BY    CLARENCE   COOK 

Still  while  she  played  you  saw  that  hand 
Glide  ghostly  white,  and  fearless  wave 
Dead  faces  up  from  Memory's  grave. 

The  firelight  flickered  on  the  wall ; 
Sweet  tears  came  to  the  heart's  relief; 
She  sat  and  sang  us  into  grief. 

Yet  now,  she  played  some  liquid  song, 
A  happy  lover  would  have  sung, 
If  once  he  could  have  found  a  tongue — 

And  now  the  sparkling  octaves  ran 
Through  the  quick  dance,  where  tangled  braid 
Now  caught  the  sunlight,  now  the  shade. 

And  now  the  boatman's  evening  song, 
As,  rowing  homeward  down  the  stream, 
He  sees  his  maiden's  garments  gleam 

Beside  the  trees,  the  trysting-place; 
While  the  sad  singer  whippoorwill, 
Cries  from  the  willow  by  the  mill. 

55 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

Yet,  howsoe'er  her  music  ran, 
A  sigh  was  in  it,  and  a  sense 
Of  some  dead  voice  that  called  us  hence; 

A  voice  that  even  now  I  hear, 
Although  the  hand  that  touched  those  keys 
Rests  on  her  heart,  that  sleeps  in  peace. 

Newburgb,  January  16,  1854. 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


A  PORTRAIT 

Mrs.  Carroll  Dunham,  September,  1877. 

I  KNOW  not  wherein  lay  the  charm 
*     She  had  in  those  remembered  days. 
The  Olympian  gait,  the  welcoming  hand, 
The  frank  soul  looking  from  her  face, 

The  manly  manners  all  her  own — 
Nor  yet  coquette,  nor  cold,  nor  free: 

She  puzzled,  being  each  in  turn; 
Or  dazzled,  mingling  all  the  three. 

Out  of  those  gowns,  so  quaintly  rich — 
They  grew,  unshaped  by  Milan's  shears! — 

Rose,  like  a  tower,  the  ivory  throat 
Ringed  with  the  rings  the  Clytie  wears. 

But,  when  you  sought  the  Roman  face 
That  on  such  columns  grew — and  grows! 

You  found  this  wonder  in  its  stead — 
The  sea-shell's  curves,  the  sea-shell's  rose ! 

57 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

Her  eyes,  the  succory's  way-side  blue; 

Her  lips,  the  wilding  way- side  rose: 
But,  Beauty  dreamed  a  prouder  dream, 

Throned  on  her  forehead's  moonlit  snows. 

And,  over  all,  the  wreathed  hair 
That  caught  the  sunset's  streaming  gold, 

Where,  now,  a  crocus  bud  was  set, 
Or  violet,  hid  in  the  braided  fold! 

But,  she,  so  deep  her  conscious  pride, 
So  sure  her  knowledge  she  was  fair — 

What  gowns  she  wore,  or  silk,  or  serge, 
She  seemed  to  neither  know,  nor  care. 

She  smiled  on  cat,  or  frowned  on  friend, 
Or  gave  her  horse  the  hand  denied. 

To-day,  bewitched  you  with  her  wit, 
To-morrow,  snubbed  you  from  her  side. 

Loyal  to  truth,  yet  wed  to  whim, 
She  held  in  fee  her  constant  mind. 

Whatever  tempests  drove  her  bark, 
You  felt  her  soul's  deep  anchor  bind. 

58 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

In  that  dark  day  when,  fever-driven, 
Her  wits  went  wandering  up  and  down, 

And  seeming-cruel,  friendly  shears 
Closed  on  her  girl-head's  glorious  crown, 

Another  woman  might  have  wept 
To  see  such  gold  so  idly  spilled. 

She  only  smiled,  as  curl  and  coil 
Fell,  till  the  shearer's  lap  was  filled; 

Then  softly  said:  "  Hair-sunsets  fade 
As  when  night  clips  day's  locks  of  gold! 

Dear  Death,  thy  priestly  hands  1  bless, 
And,  nun-like,  seek  thy  convent-fold!" 

Then  slept,  nor  woke.     O  miser  Death, 
What  gold  thou  hidest  in  thy  dust! 

What  ripest  beauty  there  decays, 
What  sharpest  wits  there  go  to  rust! 

Hide  not  this  jewel  with  the  rest — 
Base  gems  whose  color  fled  thy  breath — 

But,  worn  on  thine  imperial  hand, 
Make  all  the  world  in  love  with  Death! 


59 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


SONNET 

TO    THE    FRINGED    GENTIAN 
Dedicated  to  E.  C.  H. 

OFT  had  I  heard  thy  beauty    praised,  dear 
flower, 
And  often  searched  for  thee  through  field  and 

wood, 

Yet  could  1  never  find  the  secret  bower 
Where  thou  dost  lead  in  maiden  solitude 
A  cloistered  life  ;  but  on  one  happy  day 
Wandering  in  idle  thought,  with  a  dear  friend, 
Through  dying  woods,  listening  the  robin's  lay, 
I  saw  thy  fairy  flowers  whose  azure  gemmed 
The  fading  grass  beneath  a  cedar's  boughs. 
Oh  never  yet  so  glad  a  sight  has  met 
These  eyes  of  mine  !     Depart,  before  the  snows 
Of  hastening  winter  thy  fringed  garments  wet. 
Thine  azure  flowers  should  never  fade  nor  die, 
But  bloom,  exhale,  and  gain  their  native  sky. 

3^0-oember,  1849. 


60 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


TO  GIULIA,  SINGING 

ING  me  the  song  again,  and  yet  again 

Waken  the  music  as  it  dies  away  ; 
Make  twilight  sadder  with  it,  nor  refrain 
While  yet  these  sighing  winds  bemoan  the 

day. 

Still  let  that  wavering  voice 
Make  my  young  heart  rejoice, 
Even  tho'  one  truant  tear  adown  my  cheek  may 
stray. 

Cease  not  thy  singing,  dearest,  for  mine  eyes 

Feed  on  thy  beauty,  and  I  hear  the  song 
As  one  who,  looking  on  the  sunset  skies, 

Hears  over  flowery  meads   the   south  winds 

blow, 

And  down  the  purple  hills  the  flashing  waters 
flow. 

61 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

An  idle  song  ;  I  cannot  tell  the  meaning, 

Yet,  sing  I  o'er  and  o'er,  for  in  its  wings 
It  bringeth  heavenly  things  : 
Dear  memories  of  melodious  hours, 
When  all  earth's  weeds  were  flowers  ; 
Dear  memories  of  the  loved  ones  far  away 
Whom  yet  we  hope  to  greet  some  happy  day  ; 
Dear  memories  of  the  travellers  from  Life's  shore, 
Whom  we  shall  greet  again,  ah  !  nevermore. 

Cease,  lady  !     Sing  some  song  that  brings  again 
The  golden  past,  meet  for  this  sunset  hour  ; 

Some  breath  of  melody  not  fraught  with  pain, 
Some  gayly-tinted  flower ! 

Let  thy  fair  hand  float  o'er  the  willing  keys, 
And  all  my  sorrows  ease. 

Home  Journal,  1852. 


62 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-DAY 

BUT  yesterday  the  laughing  sun 
Came  dancing  up  the  rosy  East — 
You  would  have  thought  that  it  was  May  ; 
The  birds  sang  clear  on  every  spray. 

The  heart  with  fuller  motion  beat, 
The  sad  eye  flashed  with  brighter  fire  ; 
Down  to  the  ground  the  sunbeams  came 
And  lit  the  crocus'  slender  flame. 

The  branches  of  the  lonely  pine 
Rocked  to  a  glad  harmonious  hymn. 
The  song-bird's  music  and  the  breeze 
With  double  laughter  shook  the  trees 

That  cluster  round  the  southern  wall, 
A  feathery  fringe  against  the  sky  ; 

Their  yellow  branches  in  the  sun 

Are  very  fair  to  look  upon. 

63 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 

Far  down  between  the  rounded  hills, 
1  watched  a  wreath  of  morning  mist 
Floating  in  shadow — rising  slow, 
The  sunlight  glorified  its  snow. 

The  day  was  blessed.     Field  and  hill 
Dreamed,  bathed  in  light  and  lulled  with 

sound. 

All  day  my  soul  at  peace  within 
Went  carolling  her  joyful  hymn. 


To-day  you  cannot  see  the  sun, 
A  blinding  mist  blots  out  the  sky. 
You  hear  the  angry  waters  flow, 
You  hear  the  wintry  breezes  blow. 

The  branches  of  the  lonely  pine 
Mutter  and  sigh  tossed  to  and  fro  ; 
The  birds  that  chanted  in  the  sun 
Sit  in  the  covert  cold  and  dumb. 

The  maiden  Spring  that  Yesterday 
Was  born,  To-Day,  alas  !  is  dead. 
The  pitying  heavens  drop  over  all 
This  silent  snow  for  fittest  pall. 

64 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE   COOK 

The  sobbing  winds  her  requiem  sing  ; 
The  plashing  waves  upon  the  shore 

Sigh  hour  by  hour  ;  the  dreary  day 

In  mist  and  silence  fades  away. 

The  heart  is  wintry  as  the  earth — 

Tossed  with  the  storm,  and  drenched  with 

gloom, 
And  dark  with  doubts  that  round  her 

throng, 
To  choke  with  tears  her  heavenly  song. 

March  18,  1852. 


POEMS    BY    CLARENCE    COOK 


A  SONNET  IN  PRAISE  OF  HIS  LADY'S 
HANDS 

Translated  from  the  Italian  of"  Qualcheduns." 

IT  OW  beautiful  it  is 
•*     To  see  my  lady's  hands  ; 

Whether  adorned  with  rings, 

Or  with  their  snowy  lengths 
And  rosy  tips, 

Undecked  with  gems  of  gold. 

When  her  light  work  she  plies, 

Creating  mimic  flowers, 
Or  drawing  the  fair  thread 
Through  folds  of  snowy  lawn. 

How  beautiful  it  is 

To  see  my  lady's  hands  ; 

Often  I,  sitting,  watch 

Their  gliding  to  and  fro, 

These  lovely  birds  of  snow. 

Sometimes  the  evening  shades 
Draw  around  us  as  we  talk, 
Sometimes  the  tired  sun, 
Drooping  towards  the  West, 

66 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

Makes  all  the  fields  of  heaven 

With  autumn's  colors  glow  ; 
Sometimes  the  sailing  moon, 

Unclouded  and  serene, 
Rises  between  the  misty  woods 

That  crown  the  distant  hills  ; 
Then  most  1  love  to  sit 

And  watch  my  lady's  hands 
Blush  with  the  sunset's  rose, 

Or  whiten  in  the  moon, 
Or,  lucid  in  the  amber  evening  air, 

Folded,  repose. 

Sometimes  she  paces  slowly 

Among  the  garden  flowers  ; 
Above  her  the  trees  tremble, 

And  lean  their  leafage  down, 
So  much  they  love  to  see  her  ; 
The  flowers,  white  and  red, 
Open  their  fragrant  eyes, 
Gladder  to  hear  her  coming 
Than  birds  singing, 
Or  bees  humming. 
She,  stooping,  clad  in  grace, 
Gathers  them  one  by  one, 
Lily  and  crimson  rose, 

67 


POEMS   BY   CLARENCE   COOK 

With  sprigs  of  tender  green, 
And  holds  them  in  her  hands. 

Nothing  can  sweeter  be 
Than,  lying  on  the  lawn, 
To  see  those  graceful  hands 

Drop  all  their  odorous  load 
Upon  her  snowy  lap, 

And  then,  with  magic  skill 
And  rosy  fingers  fine, 
To  watch  her  intertwine 

Some  wreath,  not  all  unfitting 
Young  brows  divine. 

How  beautiful  it  is 

To  see  my  lady's  hands  ; 
In  moonlight  sorrowful, 

Or  sunlight  fire, 
Busied  with  graceful  toil, 

Or  folded  in  repose, 

How  beautiful  it  is 

To  see  my  lady's  hands. 


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